


Seven Year Itch

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Car Sex, Clothing Kink, First Time, Kilts, M/M, Oral Sex, Semipublic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written belatedly for a HL Kink Meme fill. The prompt was, "Duncan is dressed in full Highland dress for a special occasion. Methos takes the opportunity to learn what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. Bonus for semi-public sex. Additional bonus for inappropriate use of lyrics from a certain folk song about a drunken Scot & his kilt."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Year Itch

**Author's Note:**

> (lalala, Endgame, schmendgame.)

"I hate weddings."

Methos hadn't meant his words for anyone's ears but his own. He was fine with playing the resident cynic most of the time, but even he had better manners than to spoil a day like this one—on purpose, at least. But as luck would have it, Amanda chose exactly that moment to step through the door beside him.

"Really?" she said, putting a glass of champagne in his hand. "That's not what I heard. Sixty-eight wives, wasn't that what you told MacLeod?"

"MacLeod talks too much." Methos shifted against the wall and took a sip of the champagne; it was cool, and crisp, and did little to improve his mood. "Shouldn't you be off catching a bouquet, or something?"

Amanda scoffed. "Are you kidding?"

"Right, forgot who I was talking to." He gave Amanda a sidelong glance, appreciating the view for a moment before letting his eyes stray once more toward the far corner of the room. A man with stronger self-control would have found any one of a hundred distractions by now. But it was late, and the candles were guttering low, and he'd had enough to drink that his acute instincts for self-preservation weren't firing on all cylinders.

Amanda sipped at her own champagne and followed the direction of his gaze. "So, what's got your panties in a knot—? Oh." She leaned her shoulder against his in wordless sympathy. "That."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh, sure, you don't."

"Amanda," he warned.

She made a sound of disgust. "Methos, come on, how long has it been? Eight years?"

"Seven."

"Seven years, whatever, my point is, what's the problem? You and I both know you want to. Hell, even he knows it, and he's the most oblivious—"

"That's not the _point._ "

The point, Methos thought with a certain amount of vitriol, was that MacLeod, under certain circumstances, was simply not fair. He shouldn't exist, not in today's world, not with his ridiculously anachronistic ideals, not with his absurd talent for overcoming his own ludicrousness the way he was right now. No one should be able to attend a wedding in a dress kilt—worn entirely without irony—and look as comfortable in his own skin, as natural and edible as if he were some romance novel fantasy come to life. Methos had _seen_ the actual romance novel, in point of fact, on Amanda's coffee table. But nothing about the reality of a flesh-and-blood, real live Duncan MacLeod wearing formal Highland dress had made Methos want to laugh the way that illustration had. In fact, he was forced to admit that his first eyeful of MacLeod earlier that afternoon had put him in serious danger of swallowing his tongue.

Now, the bastard sat talking and drinking with Connor, the two of them casually intimate, their kilts baring their spread thighs. Maybe it had been two years since Methos had seen him, and maybe MacLeod had spent every minute of that two years getting a deep, rich tan, growing out his thick, curling hair into a glossy mane, and remembering how to laugh until the lines around his eyes crinkled, but that was no excuse. Methos had thought it would be easy to see him again. He'd thought maybe the unspoken tension, the sharp edges between them, might have faded with time. He hadn't counted on any of this—not MacLeod's ever-present sexual appeal, not MacLeod's open-hearted, unmistakable gladness at seeing Methos again, and most certainly not his own mortifying reaction.

Amanda sighed and turned to face him, putting herself between him and his view of MacLeod. "Honey, trust me, I get it. So, stop torturing yourself, and, you know. Let nature take its course. What's the worst that could happen?" She patted him on the chest, and gave him her glass as a consolation.

"Easy for you to say," he muttered to her retreating form.

Across the room, Duncan got up, and Methos still couldn't keep his eyes to himself. He downed half the glass in his right hand, then set it aside as MacLeod came toward him.

"You ready to get out of here?" MacLeod asked.

Methos couldn't help the pulse of heat he felt at the words. The question was innocent, he knew that, but it played all too easily into the fantasies that had been unspooling in Methos's head the last half hour or so.

Methos finished off the last of his own champagne. "I hope you called a cab," he said with a grimace.

"Connor says his driver will take us. He and Sara are staying at the hotel tonight."

"Fantastic. Can't wait. Lead on, then."

Duncan's eyebrow rose as Methos fell into step with him. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Ask Amanda. Apparently, I'm her new project."

Duncan laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I shudder to think."

That won him a curious look, but put an end to conversation for the moment as they crossed the palatial hotel lobby and stepped out into the warm, breezy night.

A sleek, black sedan waited for them. The driver held the door open, so they climbed into the back; Duncan went first, flashing a length of muscled thigh that made Methos's stomach feel light and unsteady. It wasn't the bare skin that did it for him, though admittedly, it was a good look on MacLeod. What made his mouth go dry was the flood of images he kept getting every time he thought about the likelihood that Duncan wore it in the traditional manner. For whatever twisted reason, he seemed to be obsessed with the idea.

Maybe it was inevitable, that sooner or later he would find himself in close quarters with MacLeod again, and all the old, subverted fantasies he'd entertained would come back with a vengeance. Maybe it was the way the guy smelled—like wool and sage and pine forests, or some other, indefinable thing that drove him crazy with the urge to taste. Maybe it was just that he badly needed to get laid.

Methos shook his head in disgust. The driver looked at him, expectant, and there was no help for it; he climbed in.

He kept his eyes away from Duncan's bare knees, but it was ridiculous how much effort it took. The plaid lay against MacLeod's thighs, a soft gathering of blue and green wool, a few red threads amidst the pattern. Methos's fingers itched to touch. He put his hands firmly on his own knees and made himself press his hands flat.

He could feel MacLeod's eyes on him. As they pulled away from the curb, MacLeod said, "You're in a strange mood tonight."

"Am I?"

"Aye, you are."

Methos suppressed a shiver. Mac was right; he'd drunk too much. He glanced at the driver, but the car had a privacy screen, and MacLeod had spoken too low for the guy to hear.

"Methos?"

_"What?"_

MacLeod said nothing. At last, feeling like it cost more than it should have, Methos angled his head in MacLeod's direction. "Sorry, I—"

MacLeod turned and rested an elbow on the back of the bench seat; he bent one knee, his kilt hitching up as he did so. He didn't touch Methos, but he leaned close, his voice pitched low.

"Don't. You don't have to."

"Don't have to what?" Methos asked, before he knew what he was saying. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that tone meant something.

"Say anything. It's okay." MacLeod's hand came to rest against the back of Methos's neck, then, his fingertips uncertain.

A shiver ran over Methos's skin, and he couldn't help it; he closed his eyes, his hands curling against his thighs. His heart began a slow, heavy pounding that almost certainly betrayed him. Like he'd given permission, MacLeod took the chance to stroke lightly along the back of his neck. Methos had to try several times to get his throat to cooperate.

"You do like to live dangerously, don't you," he managed at last. His voice sounded strange.

"Sometimes," MacLeod admitted.

Methos swallowed. Amanda was right. "Are we really going to do this?"

There was a pause. Then: "I don't know, are we?"

Methos inhaled, a deep, unsteady breath. At last he met MacLeod's eyes. The heat he felt ignited there, caught fire and began a fierce, steady burn. MacLeod's expression read unmistakably like a dare.

Before Methos could think it through, he'd slid down to his knees and gotten his hands on MacLeod's legs, his body insinuated between them and his face buried in the warm wool between MacLeod's thighs. He breathed in, eyes closing. "Christ, you smell good." Mac's sharp inhalation came louder than his words had, but Methos was past caring about the driver's finer sensibilities.

MacLeod shifted back to make room; there was no mistaking the push of his cock as it began to stiffen against Methos's face. The heat of Methos's breath was enough to make him harden fully; Methos closed his eyes, flushing with arousal in response. MacLeod was, without a doubt, fully naked underneath the kilt, and that certainty made Methos's dick leak in his shorts and his nipples draw tight with hunger. He rubbed his face against MacLeod's erection. "You had to wear this damn thing, didn't you?"

"If I'd known it would get this kind of response, I'd’ve worn it years ago."

"Liar."

"I swear it."

Methos met his eyes again, his breath coming hard as his body reacted to desire too long subverted and denied. "Can he see us?"

MacLeod's eyes went to the driver. "Don't think so," he said. He sounded far from sure, but caught by the same fire that built in Methos's body with every passing moment.

"Good enough for me," Methos said, and slid his hands up MacLeod's thighs, bunching the wool and gripping his muscles tight. "God, I want to fuck you."

"What's gotten into you?" MacLeod sounded like the wind was knocked out of him, and Methos knew how he felt.

"Don't pretend you don't know."

MacLeod's big hands cupped his face, thumbs rubbing at the corners of his mouth, but he didn't make a move to control the situation. "Got a thing for the Scottish lads, do you?" he murmured, but Methos could feel him trembling slightly, not as sure of himself as he pretended. It only made Methos want him more.

Methos slid his hands under the kilt, touching nothing but solid muscle, crisp hair, and warm skin. He groaned. "Can't believe you actually stood up at a wedding wearing nothing underneath but your birthday suit. Good thing it wasn't outdoors."

MacLeod spread his thighs to give him room. His fingers tightened against Methos's skull. "You gonna talk all night, or what?"

The dark tone in his voice awoke a shiver in Methos. He breathed in, the heady scent between MacLeod's thighs making his mouth water. It felt close and intimate in the back seat, his awareness of the driver, of passing cars, distant and unimportant. His fingertips found the soft skin and strong lines of Duncan's hips, curled into the sensitive creases of his thighs, claiming what was so readily available without conscious intent. This was gonna be fast, if Duncan didn't stop him; he was hungry, feeling greedy, and nothing lay between him and the object of his desires but an incidental drape of cloth. He asked, "Can I—?"

"If you don't, I'll have your head."

It was all the permission Methos needed. He reached for MacLeod's cock and wrapped his hands around it, a throb of heat singing between his legs as he learned the hot girth and length of it. Duncan was uncut, fully hard, his balls tight and warm in Methos's hand. Worthy of a prize, indeed, Methos thought. A slick streak of fluid clung to the wool and to his fingers, cool against his wrist. Duncan wanted this, too. The evidence of that, of how arousing he found Methos's touch, stripped away what little self-restraint Methos had, and he curled his hand around Duncan's girth, squeezing and stroking. He watched Duncan's face, his heart drumming a fierce rhythm.

"Ah, Methos." Duncan whispered it, wonder in his voice. One of his broad hands left Methos's head and dropped into his lap. Eyes on Methos's, he grabbed a handful of cloth and pulled it back, exposing himself.

Methos didn't have names for all the things he felt in that moment, and it was ridiculous that such a base, unselfconscious gesture should fill him with love for a man who would surely be the end of him one way or another. But that didn't matter to him, not in that moment. He bent his head, gripping Duncan's cock and licking at the salty-sweet fluid, then taking him deep in his mouth.

At the first taste of him, the feel of him hot and needy against his tongue, Methos made a sound and surged up, bracing himself over Duncan's hips to better suck, to curl his fingers around the base and pleasure him with tongue and hollowed cheeks.

Duncan gave a low, soft groan. His hips surged up; Methos spread his hand against Duncan's right flank and gripped him, then slid his arm around Duncan's waist to hold him close and brace him better. He opened his throat and bore down, tongue eager for more.

"Oh, you son of a bitch. Don't stop."

Methos thought that might have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to him, though he was aware that his judgment wasn't to be trusted. All his higher brain function had fled, giving up the field to the desperate hunger wound tight in his body. He ached for MacLeod to thrust into his mouth, for him to get a hand on Methos and wrap those wide, rough palms and blunt, strong fingers around him.

The thought made heat throb between his legs. He groaned faintly and gave a long, hard suck at MacLeod's cock, then let go and fumbled at his own trousers.

How much longer did they have? Maybe twenty minutes, tops, to Duncan's place, and at least half of that gone already. Methos’s dick throbbed against layers of cloth. At the thought of being forced to stop, his hand shook and he lost his grip on the button he was struggling with. He broke off and swore, letting Duncan go and bowing his head to rest against him a moment. "I'm such an idiot."

"I can think of other names I'd like to call you right now. Is there a problem?"

"Just that I want more of you than I can have in this car." He took a deep breath and pushed himself away from MacLeod, shooting him an accusing look. "This is your own fault, you know."

"Methos." Duncan looked down at him, his color high and all of him an obscene, glorious invitation to sin. He ran a thumb over Methos's lips, his touch rough on Methos's skin. "We have all night." An unsteady plea ran under it. The idea that Methos should have brought him to such a state so quickly only made Methos's own need worse. Screw it.

He'd ditched his tie hours ago, but he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt in a hurry, then made quick work of his fly, pushing his trousers down. His sex sprang free, slick wetness turning cool as soon as the air hit him.

Duncan's reaction was gratifying. Methos wasn't the only one achingly hard and eager for it; a fresh pearl of fluid gathered at the tip of Duncan's cock. Methos caught it on his thumb, smeared it over the head, and brought it to his mouth to taste. With his other hand he lifted Duncan's balls on his fingertips and rolled them, then bent to rub his face against the length of him, breathing in, learning the feel and the scent of him.

Duncan reached for him, then, closing a rough hand around Methos’s cock. When Methos thrust his hips forward, begging for more, Duncan slid a hand in under Methos’s shirt collar, cupped it around his neck. "Like what you see?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Shut up. The last thing your ego needs is encouragement."

In answer, Duncan thrust his hips up gently, the wool bunched around his waist. He didn't make demands, but Methos could feel him trembling. Without thought, Methos bent down, closed his eyes and took Duncan in. And oh, yes, there was Duncan's hand, heavy in his hair and against the back of his neck, the other sweet and rough against his cock. Duncan gave a soft grunt but didn't try to rush him, only spread his legs and slid down to give Methos better access.

Methos bunched his fingers in the wool, scraped them over Duncan's hips, scratching. His tongue sought and found sensitive nerves. Then he opened his throat and slid down. Duncan groaned and arched into it as Methos spread his hands against Duncan's hips, held him down, and began to suck in earnest.

"Oh," Duncan breathed. He gave a hesitant thrust against Methos's tongue, asking permission without words. Methos flexed his hands, fingertips digging into Duncan's haunches, and made a low sound of encouragement. At last, Duncan let himself go and began to take long, slow thrusts into Methos's mouth.

That was as much as Methos could take. Between one hard-fought breath and the next, the images in his head took a left turn, and now it was MacLeod taking him from behind he imagined: the kilt ruched up over his hips, his white shirt open and hanging loose, his cock jutting out full in front of him. Jesus. Methos felt the clench of hunger all through him, and he thrust into Duncan’s grip, the friction making him shudder. His mouth was full of MacLeod, his head full of the idea of MacLeod fucking him, every thrust of MacLeod’s hips translating straight to Methos's body. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and within a few moments it became obvious to Methos that he was going to get off harder on a clumsy handjob and the weight of Duncan’s hand on his head than he had in decades.

“Yeah,” Duncan breathed at last, a low plea. “Yes, Methos. Your mouth.” In answer, Methos tongued him under the head, and he broke off in a wordless, incoherent moan. “God, I thought you’d never go through with it.”

His hand tightened on Methos’s cock, jerking him faster, and Methos felt himself start to shake with the effort to stay with him. Listening to this was going to kill him. Duncan thrust up hard, another low moan escaping him. His thumb traced the corner of Methos’s mouth, and Methos could feel how unsteady he was. “Oh, God.”

At his limit, Methos held him down and sucked him deep, then licked at the head. Duncan grunted, a low cry bitten off, and the sound hit Methos where it counted. A second later, Duncan spilled hot over his tongue, his come salty and bittersweet; Methos swallowed it down, grabbed onto Duncan’s hand and thrust into his grip, forcing their entwined fingers into half a dozen tight, fast jerks until thank God, thank God, he was there, shuddering and pumping his release in a flood of unspeakable relief and pure animal pleasure.

* * *

It wasn’t until the car slowed that Methos remembered where they were. With effort, he got himself together and pushed himself up off of MacLeod’s slack thighs, which had served him well as a remarkably comfortable pillow.

Duncan grunted. “We’re there, aren’t we?”

“Afraid so, kemosabe.” With effort, Methos levered himself up off the floor. He dragged his trousers up and grimaced; he’d done them no favors, and that was an understatement. Worse, he thought with a regretful glance, MacLeod’s kilt would never be the same.

MacLeod righted himself, making himself less exposed if no less disreputable, then caught the direction of Methos’s look. The corner of his mouth turned up. “So, is this a fetish, or just a one-time thing?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh.” Duncan caught his wrist, drawing Methos’s palm to lay against Duncan’s inner thigh. Despite himself, Methos felt his color rise.

He hid it behind a warning glare. “Careful, MacLeod. Make with the schoolgirl outfits, and I’m likely to turn you over my knee.”

The other man’s eyebrows rose in a look that could only be called hopeful. “Promise?”

And that was a perfect example, Methos thought, of the kind of thing that was likely to lose him his head, or his sanity, in the end. Because in what universe was he supposed to resist?

A long road stretched out before him, and he could see all too well where it would lead, but knowing the danger didn’t make any difference. The man was still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He was still a pain in Methos’s ass, and he was still, in every way that counted, unfair.


End file.
